3.31.2008

For the last 10 days, I've had AngryJournalist.com on my RSS feed. Yesterday, I finally took it off. It was simply too depressing.

Newsrooms are a tough place to be in any era, especially right now. Change is constant. Your boss is wound up. Your coworkers are agitated. The place reeks of sour brussel-sprouty newsprint, you're sick of hearing about anybody named Craig or Ariana, and your Sharpie just blew up in your pocket.

But while some are accepting their fate, those that are adapting appear to be thriving.

3.28.2008

"I am here to announce," said the greybearded plaid-wearing man, "the death of the bifurcated conservationist."

His voice rose as he spoke into the microphone, he paused for effect, and then he continued. "I AM HERE TO ANNOUNCE," another pause, "THE ARRIVAL OF THOSE WHO GET IT."

The slight drawl was tinged with emotion, full of reason, and echoed through the chamber. Steve Wright, a former Vermont Fish & Wildlife Department commissioner and current regional rep for the National Wildlife Federation, sat across from six Vermont legislators. Behind him were more than 100 people, crammed into a meeting room in the state capitol last night.

They sat on the floor, they stood in the back, and they spoke. Below the gold dome, just around the corner from that gigantic (and sorta creepy) portrait painting of HoDean, the gathering was the single public hearing for a proposed state resolution to reallocate 1/48th of the current sales tax toward the Fish & Wildlife Department.

It's a big deal. With the vote, the department would raise more than $6 million a year and be eligible for close to $2 million in federal matching funds.

Without it ... the department will run a deficit, and be bailed out by a $2 million check from Vermont's general fund, as it has for the last several years.

The group that's backing the proposal (aka, the Vermont Wildlife Partnership) is a big tent coalition, including everybody from DU, TU, and the National Trappers Association to the Nature Conservancy, the Sierra Club, and Isis. They represent a new sort of conservation group ... one that doesn't care whether you're a caster, a blaster, a trapper, or a treehugger.

They acknowledge that fish and wildlife is a resource that benefits all Vermonters, whether they wear orange or not. And they also acknowledge that paying for their custody through permits only is like charging only those in red trucks for the cost of highway upkeep.

The reasons for the funding ... as expressed in the room last night ... were countless: plummeting permit sales, century-old fish hatcheries, the arrival of aquatic invasive species, struggling deer populations, the closure of private lands to fishing and hunting, climate change, lack of enforcement, lack of education, and sheer lack of resources to do what's already on the table (aka, the Vermont Wildlife Action Plan.)

The reasons against it ... on the other hand ... were solely political.

The big question in the room wasn't whether more funding for Vermont's fish and wildlife was a good idea (no one can argue that point), but rather what is the priority of the natural world in this current era?

Is it one of the top 48 reasons that you live in Vermont? Or is it something that you feel should be at the mercy of politics, year after year?

3.27.2008

A week ago, a line-up of wild turkeys strolled past the front porch, not unlike the ladies that make a regular habit of walking the Loop Road. Around that same time, I heard the raucous yipping of a coyote band ... at around 3 am ... clearly celebrating something nasty.

I hoped in my heart that it wasn't the chickens. It turned out to be a deer. Whether it collapsed in our back pasture or was drug there, I'm not sure.

The good wife spotted it the next day. We could see it from the house: the tufts of fur sprayed out across the snow, and the darkened mass of a carcass lying limp. Eager to make sure the appetizer wouldn't lead the coyotes closer to the house, I strapped on the snowshoes last night and hauled the thing deep into the woods.

The snow is still deep here. And firm. There's no vegetation showing, other than the hardwoods. Digging down would be near impossible with a shovel, let alone with your claws or hooves or beak.

The wild things are in a hungry place right now. They're moving and looking and eating what they can find. Unfortunately for them, there's not much on the menu except eachother.

Which is more likely to change behavior: a $4 gallon of gasoline, or a $4 chocolate chip cookie?

Sure, that cookie looks damn good. Sitting there next to the cash register in that glass jar. Oooozing chocolate and eggy goodness. Smelling like grandma's kitchen. But $4? No thanks. Definitely not baked enough to fall for that one. That's a ridiculous price for a cookie. A damn cookie. I could make that thing at home for ... I don't know ... a lot less. Definitely a lot less. Probably 24 cents, when you add it all up. Four bucks for a cookie. Right. Who needs it?

But $4 for gas is different, right? You need that gas. You need to be able to drive to the post office. You have to ride in that car alone to the ski area. You don't have an alternative. You have to buy it. Right? You need it. Right.

3.14.2008

It’s almost spring, but he ain’t feelin’ it. The snowpack, even around his Cabot home, is three feet thick. The on-trail skiing pretty much sucks, but the backdoor outings – the latest just this morning, a hour of slipping through three-inches of pre-dawn fluff atop a crust that would make a baguette jealous – still beckon.

Twice he’s tried to get the tractor into the woods, and twice he’s nearly gotten stuck. The firewood is nearly gone; perhaps another half-cord, maybe enough, maybe not. It’s felt like a real winter, like winter the way winter should be, long and snowy and cold.

Yesterday, he heard a fellow on VPR talking about a book he wrote: The Geography of Happiness. The fellow had been surprised to find that the happiest people lived in the coldest, most foreboding places. The writer had decided it was because it forced a collective effort against the elements, a coming together to forge ahead, a common purpose.

Maybe so, he thinks, maybe so. Or perhaps it’s this: Maybe the happy people know something the dissatisfied don’t: It’s not the battle against the elements that breeds satisfaction. It’s the elements themselves.

(Dear Dad ... Google Maps is a really, really big map that you can access through your America Online account. You can type in your address and the address of Russ' house, then get directions. Yes, I know you don't need directions, I was just using his house as an example. No, I haven't paid my taxes yet. No, I'm not going to vote for Ron Paul.)

Fishing guides live outdoors. All day, every day. In rain and sun and snow. They're pounding warm beers, cold steak sandwiches, and gumming stale smokes. They're rowing, poling, spotting. And, most of the time, they're hoping for a tip.

Guides ... and those of us who wish we were ... need gear that can pass the smell test for 14 days straight (maybe more), that can bead up and roll off everything from good coffee to Two Buck Chuck, and that can bring the sunscreen even when they forget.